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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several